


hundreds upon hundreds

by galaxyeyedrops



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC-V
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyeyedrops/pseuds/galaxyeyedrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>memefic prompt: reader/reiji akaba's credit card, crave that mineral</p><p>(I'm sorry world.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hundreds upon hundreds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pipecleanerFlowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipecleanerFlowers/gifts).



Reiji Akaba is rich.

You know it from the moment he walks in during your shift, long legs clad in capris more expensive than your shitty liberal arts degree. He takes his time strolling around the store, waving off your practiced _how may I help you sir_ , touching, inspecting everything like he’s never actually been to a gas station before, spending about twenty minutes in front of the drinks fridge, before finally walking back to your counter with a bottle of blue powerade.

He stands there for a minute, peering down at you behind a pair of designer frames, assessing, probably judging your frizzy hair and cheap lipstick like it’s a novelty, like every other asshole in line doesn’t do the same.

You click your tongue, annoyed, and he finally _finally_ puts it down for you to scan. He listens through your entire spiel about how his day was (like you care), did he find everything he wanted (ditto), and would he like to sign up for a rewards card? He nods and shakes his head at all the right moments, but when it comes time to pay, he holds out a crisp hundred dollar bill.

"Sorry," you say, without the slightest hint of sympathy. “We don’t accept large bills. Store policy.”

He folds it up, putting it back in his wallet, a pretty red thing, most definitely leather and bulging with hundreds upon well, _hundreds_.

He pulls out a card, monochrome and sleek, and your heart skips a beat. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, a border design adds elegance, the raised lettering promises a life like no other.

“Is this alright?,” he asks, interrupting your reverie.

“Y-yeah,” you say, breathless, only wishing he bought more so maybe, just maybe, you’d get the chance to verify it.

You’ve never been particularly smart or beautiful, never had any talents, nothing to get you in among the elites. But you’re stubborn, incredibly so, and really really lucky. And sometimes that’s more than enough.

The next time Reiji Akaba walks into your life, he knocks. Raps on the door of your apartment at 6 am, continuing to the point it’s impossible to ignore, not stopping until you open it, bleary-eyed and still dressed in your pajamas.

There’s a man, large and imposing, next to him. He’s nearly twice your height and dressed head to toe in black. His eyes constantly scan his surrounding, venture into your living room, past your ratty sofa and stack of exercise dvds, still in their plastic wrapping.

After a minute, he turns back to his boss, nods to tell him either that you aren’t some kinda terrorist or that you’ve got decent taste in home decor. You can’t really tell.

Reiji Akaba turns back to face you, eyes boring into your own.

“We need to talk,” he says.

 

And that’s how you end up at Miami’s finest coffee shop, still in your pajamas, hands wrapped tightly around a porcelain mug as Reiji Akaba explains the finer details of dimensional politics.

It’s about that thing a few years back, when portals opened up in the sky, snatching people away to worlds they didn’t even know existed, the same one you managed to get an excused absence for three months of slumming it with a motorcycle gang.

Apparently, they had really risen up the ranks, getting all kinds of high profile jobs, while still conducting some pretty shady stuff in the background. And the only living person who could identify them on sight?

_You._

He tells you something about a party tomorrow night, almost certain to have a member or two, hands you an iPad, screen filled with hundreds upon hundreds of designer dresses, and tells you to choose.

It isn’t till you’re back at home, curled up on your couch, a cat in your lap, that you realize that you’ve essentially become a secret agent.

The limo arrives at your place two hours before the party is scheduled to start. The driver's a girl a year or two younger than yourself, with a blinding grin and an incredibly powerful grip. She whisks you into the car, dumps you in the back seat, constantly chattering about how great the party’ll be and what did Akaba ever do to date a girl as cute as you. She slips you her number as she helps you out, winks and holds a finger to her lips.

Her handwriting is small, all loops and hearts. You whisper her name, _considering_ , and pocket the note.

Akaba Himiko meets you in the foyer. She gives you that long assessing look, the same as her son, and finds you lacking. She bites her lip, lipstick staining her teeth bright red, and motions for a maid off the side to _deal with you_.

Contrary to popular belief, _dealing with you_ isn’t always a euphemism for a one way trip to the morgue, in this case, it means taking you to one of the upper rooms, where a makeup artist and your dream dress are waiting.

The makeup artist, a heavyset man who only introduced himself as Taro, spends the first five minutes bemoaning the terrible state of your skin and quizzing you about things you didn’t even know a person could be allergic to.

But his hands are gentle as they they apply toner to your face, soft as each brush glides across your cheekbones. You’ve always been messy with liquid eyeliner, a never ending cause of stress, but today you close your eyes and relax into that cool feeling, and before you know it, it's over.

He steps outside for a second as you put on your dress, crimped purple silk that wraps luxuriously around your body, steps back in to lather your hair with mousse, straightening from your skull and down, curling around the ends to form ringlets. He pins certain sections back in place, handing a mirror to you at the end, smiling at your delighted gasp, and showing himself out.

The party itself is even better. Cameras flash as you walk by, Akaba's arm interlocked your own. Heads turn as you step into the room, both disdainful and surprised, but all looking straight at you. You smile back, sweet as you can force, because this too is part of your job.

You don't find anyone that night, but you're in no hurry to. Akaba had told you about it taking a while, possibly years, that rushing things would only mess up all his planning. His tone is condescending but you don't mind, you're going to enjoy this as long as it lasts.

(The next morning, you quit your job at the gas station.)

 

Months pass in a haze of shimmering lights and too much alcohol, you've managed to identify a few key members here and there, not enough to take down the gang, but definitely cripple it.

Reiji's sitting next to you, as always, dressed in a charcoal grey suit with a red tie the same shade as your dress. He clears his throat and everyone turns to him.

He announces your engagement like it's the weather, talks about love and happiness with the same voice that spoke of conveniences and shared bank accounts. People clap as he pulls you into a kiss, cold lips against your own, cameras flash as they press, clicking, clicking, _clicking_.

As you pull away, your hand brushes the seat of his pants, and pauses to rest against his wallet.

People rush forwards to congratulate you both, but after a few minutes he steps aside, leaving you to deal with them all.

You don't make your escape until an hour later, after you've lied more in an evening than your elementary school years combined.

The limo is there to take you home and without pausing to change or wipe your makeup off, you walk straight down to the basement, Reiji's own personal batcave.

There's another man there, pressed against your fiance. Reiji had introduced him a while back as one of his former lancers and his current partner. You took it then to mean dimension policing partner and nothing else.

Their lips are a breath apart, eyes fixed on each other.

They move closer.

You turn around and walk away.

Your heels clack against the tiled floor, loud but unnoticed.

The next day, you go ring shopping. Reiji knows plenty of nice jewelers, price as usual isn't an issue and so you throw yourself into it, make finding the perfect ring your sole mission, because honestly, you don't want to think about anything else.

It's at the fourth shop, owned by a pro leaguer, that you find it. It's large, carats in the double digits, surrounded by an inlay of rubies.

The diamond in the center sparkles, shines under the display light with everything Reiji’ll never be, that both of you together will never achieve, but you stay.

You marry him, sign papers upon papers tying his fate to yours. All because you crave that mineral. Crave money, want wealth because, unlike everything else, it's never let you down.

(Reiji Akaba is rich, and to you, that's all that matters.)


End file.
